Page 5 of Great Service from Top to Bottom

“Hello, and welcome to the Tom Collins Artificial Bartender Package, version two point one. To change my language, please state your preferred linguistic package now,” Basic Tom said.

Reynard straightened behind the bar. “How is he now?”

“You have selected Swahili,” Tom said. “To confirm, say yes in Swahili.”

“No,” I said.

“Imethibitishwa.”

“What? No. Tom, go back to English.”

Tom waffled some more Swahili that I had no hope of understanding. Of course, Reynard did, and fell into speaking fluent Swahili with Basic Tom. But Reynard’s classic resting vampire face grew ever tighter, until he ducked under the bar again, switched Tom off, and produced a tiny black rectangle, not much larger than his thumb.

“What’s that?”

“His brain.”

“Oh. Ew.”

“I’ll take this to the office and have the staff see what the problem is. Unfortunately, Tom Collins will be out of order until I return.”

“So the bar’s closed?”

“Unfortunately, the bar is closed, Adam.”

Oh no. The bar was Zee’s favorite place to feed. If the bar was closed, he’d have to feed from me, which wouldn’t normally have been a problem. But over the last few days, he’d been a bit . . . distant, in that regard. And then there was the issue of my curse work potentially being deadly. If he couldn’t feed from me, or dance in the bar, he might have to go back to Razorsedge. “How long will it take?”

“It shouldn’t be long. A day, at most.” Reynard tucked the AI chip into his pocket. “Depending on the cause.”

A day would be alright. Zee probably wouldn’t even notice. I sighed, and rubbed my forehead, hoping to push back an impending ache.

“Would you . . .”

Reynard trailed off, which he never did. I looked up.

“I . . . well.” He cleared his throat. “That is to say, would you like to join me?”

“At your office?”

His chin lifted. “Yes. If you’d like.”

I’d get to see the headquarters of the multibillion-dollar Reynard Technologies? We’d be together, without someone trying to kill us or put us in pies? We might even be able to discuss a few things that were long overdue, such as what didn’t happen in Razorsedge’s red room, and whether he and I maybe had something more than an odd, mismatched friendship. “I’d like that.”

“Good. I’ll summon my driver and meet you outside in ten minutes.”

“I’ll uh . . . tell Zee the bad news about the bar, I guess.”

I found Zee in the corner of the foyer, standing at a DIY podium that appeared to be constructed of old crates nailed together. He’d slung a brightly colored celebration banner down the front, scratched out the words Let’s Party, and painted on Concierge instead. Then he’d drawn on five gold stars, and scrawled The Best, above it.

He had mentioned taking on more of an active role in the hotel’s day-to-day tasks, but concierge wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind. It would probably be fine, especially as he looked amazing in his blood-red suit. He’d worn that same suit when strutting his stuff at Razorsdege, the night we’d freed him and his friends from Sebastien. With his wings hidden away, he wasn’t as enormously loud now as he’d been then, but his height, horns, and emotive tail meant he still dazzled.

“Welcome to the SOS Hotel!” he announced, the second the front door opened and a stocky troll strode in. Trolls are like gargoyles, in that they’re packed with muscle, but they’re shorter, and grumpier. “Where we offer a fabulous fucking service, from top”—Zee winked—“to bottom.”

From anyone else, that line would have been innocent. But from San Francisco’s number one ex-porn-star demon, there was no such thing as innocent.

I waited until he’d guided our uncertain guest to Madame Matase to check in, and caught his eye on his return to his makeshift desk. “Zee? What are you doing?”

“I’m a concierge now. At every guest’s beck and call.” He rested an arm on his podium, and draped himself on display. “Their heart’s desires are my . . .” He circled a hand in the air and frowned. “What fucking rhymes with desires?”